


If It Were True

by spiced_1990



Category: Spice Girls
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27205082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiced_1990/pseuds/spiced_1990
Summary: If it were true that it was only once, why do you feel so possessive? If it were true that you didn’t like it, why did you keep going back for more?
Relationships: Geri Halliwell/Christian Horner, Melanie Brown/Geri Halliwell
Kudos: 15





	If It Were True

You’ve always hidden behind half-truths and the bravado of transparency. You want to be honest, love how good it makes you feel, but there are reasons for secrets, necessary ones. There are people in your life who you want to protect, but you also need to protect yourself.

The first lie (one you even tried telling yourself) was ‘I’ve never thought about it’. It had been exposed late at night, the truth dragged out of you as Mel brought you to a quick climax with her eager mouth and nimble fingers. You’d admitted it afterwards, as she laid atop you, sweaty limbs entangled and her breath cool and steady on your chest. “I had a dream about it once,” you’d whispered. “Where you touched me.”

It hadn’t happened again for a few weeks and you’d fibbed to yourself, told yourself it didn’t matter, that you weren’t asking yourself why. Was Mel bored? Had she found someone better? Had your attempt at going down _there_ been so pathetic and amateurish that it had completely turned her off? One morning, Mel had returned from the club with Emma and crept into your bed, peeling off leather and lace and immediately reaching for you. Her lips had tasted of cheap beer and cigarettes. 

It didn’t take long before you started realising people were wondering about the two of you, about the closeness but also about the huge blow-out fights. About whether the two things were connected. “I like making you angry,” Mel had whispered to you once, one of her hands holding your hips down as she licked and sucked at your clit. You hadn’t responded, too busy biting your lip raw to stop from moaning and waking up Melanie in the next bed over. 

Emma had been the first person brave enough to ask, had approached you after a long and arduous studio session. “You and Mel, am I missing something? Are you two - ”

You’d nearly choked on air, had been flustered and blushed and stammered out a lie that you still don’t know if she bought. “No, nothing, of course - Nothing. We just get on each others’ nerves, you know. Like sisters. Or something.” Your friend’s continued skepticism three months later (Mel had had you backed against the bathroom wall, one of her hands cupping your chin and tilting your head up towards her) had been met with stony denial. She hadn’t asked again.

When Mel had told you she had another new boyfriend, you'd reminded yourself that that was always going to be the inevitable conclusion to whatever the two of you were playing at. You'd never been anything other than heterosexual (dreams don’t count and your best friend was an exception to every rule) and Mel was never going to be willing to be tied down to one person (and if she did, it wouldn’t have been you). 

“C’mon, girls, just a middle eight to go.”

You'd offered up words scrawled on notepaper, hadn't offered up their history or source. You’d always written in your journal but it had become religion to you, necessary to sort out your increasingly frustrating emotions. When Matt had asked who the song was about, his voice teasing and light, you'd equivocated and explained that songs aren’t always just about one person or experience. But that one was. Mel had been oblivious, had put an arm around you as she read the words and claimed them to sing as her own. 

_making you mine  
_ _holding you tight  
_ _wondering when the story ends_ _  
__or if we’ll find the light_

“This is sweet,” she’d said to you. “A little sad, too. Lucky guy.” You’d wondered why she assumed there was someone else. 

When you look back on your lies, it’s not only the big, public ones that you remember (“She was just a friend”, “I’ve never heard that rumour”, “That wasn’t why I left”). There was one particular night in Spain that you still sometimes dream about. You’d snuck out of the hotel together, giggling like little children as you’d opened the lobby doors and rushed into the dark evening. Holding hands, you’d wandered the streets. Careless. Free.

“I feel invincible sometimes,” Mel had said as the two of you leapt about, avoiding the puddles on the cobbled lane. “When we’re together. What do you feel?”

“When we’re together?”

“Yeah.” She’d lifted your hand up, kissed the back of it softly, and your brain had flickered, your heart stuttered. It made you want what you couldn’t have. “That.”

“Everything,” you’d confessed. “Absolutely everything.”

Mel had doubled over at the apparent hilarity, smiling up at you, her glasses slightly askew. “You don’t need to pretend with me. I’m not your boyfriend and I don’t need reassurance that you love me and not my money. You nutter.”

You’d shrugged and laughed it off. 

“Seriously, though, do you think you could fall in love with a woman?” Mel had asked later that night as the two of you showered, her soaped up hands slow and firm on your back. You’d been a coward, had pretended not to hear the question. _Liar liar, pants on fire, Miss Halliwell. Of course you could. Haven’t you already? At least a little?_ The younger woman had tucked her head into the nape of your neck and wrapped her strong arms around you, planting little kisses along your neck until you’d squirmed and begged for mercy. Then she’d made you cum so hard you couldn’t find the words to beg at all.

After you’d left the band, you’d written her letters, tear-stained notes of contrition and apology that she’d never acknowledged or mentioned. You’d wanted to be as honest as possible with her but there were lines you couldn’t cross, mostly for your own sanity. _Things got too difficult, I couldn’t cope, you didn’t need me._ Not _I loved you and you broke my heart_. Years later, on several occasions, Mel had tried to get more answers out of you and you’d lied to her face. The still angry, still hurt part of you wanted to anger and hurt her too. 

“You’re never going to tell me, are you?” Piers Morgan (the smug prick) had said to her on national television, a cruel reminder that some people KNEW. Later, Melanie had called her out on it over the phone, had asked whether she thought _anyone_ bought the smirk and silence. But people did. You had form, a reputation for being unable to keep your mouth shut. Telling the truth, you’d reflected afterwards, would be a weight off your shoulders but it would also bring with it a hundred other burdens that you knew you couldn’t carry. First and foremost, admitting it would invite other questions, invasive ones, questions that might salt some still open wounds. 

Maybe one day you’d be strong enough. Ha. A joke. Another blemish on your record of honesty. 

In the end, you didn’t have a choice. ‘The truth will set you free’ was an old quote and you _usually_ liked those. They made you feel emboldened and intelligent and connected to the past. The reality was messier, so much messier. At first, you’d panicked, asked Mel for clarification on exactly what she’d admitted to. Learning you weren’t the only liar had been a relief but a not so small part of you resented that she had so easily and convincingly chalked it up to a fun, drunken experiment. 

You’d told Christian, of course, and Bluebell too, once you’d received a heads up that all the tabloids were going to be running the ‘bombshell’ (such a grotesque representation of what had been) as their cover story the following day. 

Your husband had made all the right noises, said all the right words, but his face had been closed off all evening, his movements rote and unemotional. Anger would have been understandable, even shock, and you’d been tempted to try and provoke a fight just to feel something, to expunge some of the complicated emotions churning you up, making your stomach cramp. 

Sleep hadn’t come easily and when it finally arrived, you’d dreamt of her. 

* * *

When the tour begins, it’s impossible not to compare. In 2007, Melanie had been the married one, and the few times you’d been alone (a hotel you can’t remember the name of, a small tapas bar in Los Angeles she’d recommended, behind the doors of your London home), you’d both pretended he didn’t exist, had recklessly flirted and kissed and clung to each other like ten years hadn’t passed, like the future was bright and shiny and yours.

It wasn’t. 

There’s caution onstage now, a distance that makes you uncomfortable, that makes you want to force something into being. She’s affectionate with you, but she kisses Emma on the mouth, wraps her legs around Melanie. She looks fondly at you, but the way she stalks with intent after Jess during breaks in rehearsals is a reminder that you’re a distant memory. 

“Monty just wanted to come over for a little cuddle,” Christian says backstage in your quiet dressing room, one hand around your son on his hip and the other wrapped around his mobile phone. Always ready, always prepared, always able to manage and control and win. You’re jealous of his stability but it’s yours now too, of course. _What's mine is yours, what's yours is mine._ Forever. The word had always scared you because you'd never had confidence in your own ability to stay the course, to not get bored or self-sabotage or break things off before you got broken. Now it scares you because you know what people are saying, that you're different, changed, somehow diminished. There's no going back. You want to feel empowered in your choices, not just safe, but it's a work in progress, your mother says. That's normal. You want to make her proud, your children too. And so you lie, little lies that make life a little easier or a little simpler. 

One night after the show, you're getting ready for bed, toothbrush still in hand, your damp towel covering your breasts, when Christian asks. You've been waiting, feeling as though you're being slowly pushed towards the edge of something. He wants the truth, he says to you, still so calm that it makes you want to scream. No matter how bad it is. You want to shock him but you need him to stay, and so you remain silent. You count brushstrokes. His familiar hands come to rest on your shoulders and something in you breaks when all you can think about is how different they feel on your bare skin than Mel's. 

It's unfair and cruel, especially because you're almost certain she doesn't give you a second thought. Not like that. 

"Girls experiment," you say quietly, unable to make eye contact with him in the mirror. "It's different, you know, trying to figure out what you like, what you don't."

He hesitates, tilts his head. "And you _liked_ that?"

"I liked her." You put the toothbrush down, turn around and bury your head in his hairy chest. The differences also make it easier in some ways. "We were drunk. She was my best friend. It just happened."

He nods, seemingly satisfied, and the fact that he knows the rest of your history, the heartbreak of leaving the girls, the deep depression and loneliness, the feelings of displacement, and yet is satisfied with your lie... Sometimes you wonder whether you'll ever meet anyone who gets you as easily, as completely, as Mel does. 

Five days after the tour ends, Mel knocks on the door to your London home, doesn't hesitate to march in, her dark eyes surveying everything. Every hum of satisfaction, every nod of approval, lights something up inside of you, and you follow her around, wittering on about the photos you've chosen to display, the new cushions Bluebell has recently picked out for the sofa. Eventually, she turns, so quickly you find your body up against hers. Too close. You suck in, looking up at her (she's still wearing her heels and a smart dress, her make-up flawless, and you've never felt older or smaller), trying to figure out what caused the abrupt stop.

"I miss us," she says, her voice soft and contemplative. You don't know what to tell her, can't tell her the truth but can't lie to her either. Mel's had too many people fuck her over, abuse her with their words and fists and little white lies that became anything but. "Are you happy?"

You're a talker, always have been, even when you're trying desperately to be better, more grown-up. But you don't have any words. They stick in your throat and you want Mel to swallow them with her warm, wet mouth on yours. But it's been too long and you're not allowed. You want to keep your vows. You need to keep your promises.

But the biggest lie of all and the one you _desperately_ want to believe in is that you’re over it, over her and what you’d thought you had together.

And so you kiss her. 


End file.
